WALK IN MY SHOES

by
Robert Leslie Newman

Copyright 10-27-97

     "Room 522, bed 2."
     That was the answer to my second question. I was here at University Hospital to see the newest victim of a drive-by-shooting. This nurse had ignored my first question, so I hit her again with it. "The prognosis is total and permanent blindness, right?" I thought she knew I was working with the police department. Sergeant Dworick of homicide told me he had called ahead informing them I was with the Services for the Blind and gotten clearance. I didn't want the hassle of having to go over her head to get what I needed. I swear, Big institutions and/or egos could mess up communication.
     "Yes counselor, I understand the need to cooperate with the authorities on these matters." The "but factor" loud and clear in her tone. "He is still recovering and mustn't be over-taxed."
     Twisting and turning my way to the room I had the sneaking suspision that either the nurse was still having fun with me or the layout of this place was a maze understandable only by the medical mind. Nevertheless I had a moment to think through a major counseling issue I was about to face. Blindness in its initial stages I knew could be tough, but the one I was now thinking and feeling my way through was cross-cultural counseling; Ricky the guy I was here to see is black. I had studied all the fancy theories and approaches for bridging from one race or culture to another. I knew I didn't have any hang-ups with it and would follow the old tried and true philosophy, which worked most often for me, "Try on the other guys moccasins." Through communication I'd try his and he'd ttry mine; get some trust and respect going. After all, people are people.
     In the room the next question was "bed two?" Was it the nearest or the furtherst from the door? Logic won out. It was the first one in; there was only one person in the room and by the sound of it he seemed to be resting or asleep.
     Purposefully being a bit noisey as I approached, the sounds of breathing turn toward me. "Ricky, how are you feeling? Are you up to a visitor?"
     "Yeah." Sounding more groggy than asleep.
      What I needed to visit with Ricky about concerned both the shooting itself, as well as its result. First I would see if I could help him drudge up anything he could remember to further the investigation. I had worked with Dworic on a couple of cases in the past and right now he tells's me they had zilch to go on. Second, most important to me, I was here to help Ricky with his adjustment to blindness. But no matter how you cut it, not getting the cart before the horse, I knew I needed to start by building a bridge of trust and rapport; cridical be it in a case of detection, blindness or culture.
     In brief Ricky's personal bio was: Black single male, twenty-four, approximately six foot three and two hundred pounds. He wasn't known to be a trouble maker, nor a member of any local gangs. There again, it was known he didn't like whites and was basically a guy who stayed to his own people. Educationally, he graduated from high school and put himself through tech college. Employment wise, he was an auto mechanic, an honest hard worker. Personally, he was planning to marry a woman he had a child by and was generally viewed as being proud to a fault. Medically, the doctor felt he was now out of danger. However he warned me about Ricky's state of mind, very depressed.
     "My name is Samuel, Samuel Patrick, I'm the counselor from the Service for The Blind Detective Dworic told you would be coming. How are you doing?" Getting no further response, thinking by getting more specific might help, I asked, "They treating you okay here?" This too got me nothing. Interviewing someone became difficult when only one person was willing to talk, yourself. Then partly to see if he was with me and in an atempt to jumpstart the process I asked, "Do you remember anything more about the shooting? Can you help us there?"
      Getting a break at this point in the investigation was critical. The couple of witnesses the police had either didn't or wouldn't admit to seeing anything. Their refusal to help was unfortunately becoming today's reaction norm for people who may have witnessed a crime. It was showing up like a variation on that theme involving the three monkeys; "Maybe hear evil, maybe see evil, but report no evil and get no evil coming back down on you."
      At this point in our interview I wasn't sure if the origin of his non-response to this line of questioning was a conscious or unconscious one. Either way, I decided to change tact to one closer to home, to the situation at hand. It would be a question that just might shock him into giving me some kind of start to a dialogue. "Ricky, they tell me your injury will leave you permanently blind. How do you feel about that?"
      Silence; not a breath, not even a rustle to the bed- clothes. Then, "Who you think you are ask'n about that?" Twenty years experience assisting people to adjust to blindness told me starting with a person feeling this bad was always difficult.
     Trying to make sure my next comment would come out as non-threatening and common sense as possible I said, "Getting it out in the open is usually best....."
      He didn't let me finish. "Don't want to talk about it." His sullen tone left little doubt to his feelings.
      "Can't say I did much either when it happened to me." With this self diisclosure I could tell he heard and understood something he hadn't realized to this point; he hadn't been told or didn't remember I was blind. "A car accident got me back when I was fifteen. Went from twenty-twenty to what I call double-ought-zero. I don't see light, don't see anything." Picking up my long white cane I struck the bed frame a couple of times. "That's my cane. Thought you heard it when I came in."
      Taking yet another tack, I tried to put myself into his skin. Thinking about how quick, tragic, senseless and irreversible was this turn of events in his life, I asked, "Can't believe it happened to you, huh?"
      A stirring, a slight smack of the lips as he drew in and let out a deep breath. Then verbalization at last. "Dream. Bad dream. Nightmare, goes on and on." A short response, but one showing more of the unreality and potential tragedy of this predicament than could a thousand words convay.
      "Ricky, it would help us, you and me and the police if we can talk about all of it." Thinking I would try to steer him back to the beginning, I asked the big one again, "Starting at the top, what do you remember about getting shot?" No response. "Are you up to this?" Readying my Braille'n Speak for taking notes.
      "Noth'n." Was his answer and also a message for among other things, dramatic shock to the brain can cause memory laps to events leading up to the injury. I felt there was no further use trying to travel down that road.
      Wanting to check him on another serious event, I asked, "Know when they plan to send you home?"
      "No, the doctor hasn't said noth'n."
      "I'm sure all that is happening to you will soon make a lot more sense. For now, you'll have to be patient with things before it starts to get noticeably better." I knew from my briefing he was restricted to his bed and had a small drainage tube sticking out of the cranium. Though normally a big healthy strong man, he was weak and suffering extreme headaches. There would be more work to be done on him before he'd be ready to go home to his family and hopefully his job; this last eventuality remaining to be seen. It was pretty clear that he still wasn't up to any serious questioning yet. At least not on the crime part of it. However in respect to his blindness, his answers of "bad dream, a nightmare that goes on and on," was quite revealing. This told me he was aware of his situation, in the hospital and blind. This was the area needing immediate exploration and rehabilitation; forget the crime thing for now.
      "Ricky, it would help me to help you if you would tell me what you know about blindness." This was one of my main lines of questioning during the early stages of adjustment. My use of it goes back to that old saying, "you are who you think you are." I started using it after years of observing human behavior, where I found most of us live what we feel is reality; be it of our own making or not. An example might be where the inner-script reads, "If you think blindness will severely handicap your life, you will start acting it out and it will be so." My job then would be to see where a newly blinded person is on this scale of reality and be a force to make sure they move as high as possible into the positive range of expectation, behavior and life.
      "Shit!" He snorted. "Noth'n good. Noth'n I'd want to know." Delivered like he couldn't care, but you strongly suspected he was hiding something like fear and resignation. He went silent again, no movement.
      Feeling he was strong, one of those stoic types which sometime need a "bomb-shell" to get their attention I said, "Ricky, I am here to tell you that blindness can all but kill you. It can eat away at your confidence, cut down your ability. It sure enough can kill off your life style and future as you know it. It can sometimes even take your life because you may not want it any more." Softening my tone. "However it really doesn't have to do a real bad number on you if you handle it right. That means, if you want to make it at all, you can't afford to have any ignorance or fear of it. You've got to get smart to it, learn as much about blindness and your ability to live with it. You also need to get on to the fact that you've come to a crossroads in your life and there's some choices to make."
     Going quiet myself, listening for his response. He was quiet. The only sound to be heard in the room was his breathing. He seemed to be just lying there like the tough street guy. "Excuse me for the lecture. I tell my wife that I can't help it. However you needed to hear all that."
      Waiting for nearly a full minute with him not saying a thing, I figured I might as well go back to something he had said. "What did you mean when you said," using his own words, "like a nightmare that goes on and on?" Still nothing, but I thought he was listening. "Like I said, the doctors tell me that this is it, you'll never see again. Either you learn to handle it and go on with your life or you let it stop you." Still quiet, but his breathing quickened. He was having some kind of emotional reaction.
     "Get out," he said low and guttural, but there wasn't any sense of malice in it.
      "In a minute," I said not moving. I needed to plant a seed for thought, some next step. "Ricky, you've been hit hard. In a few days you'll be up and they'll be turning you out of here. You'll need to go on with things. Think of this, I know it doesn't take eyes to do most things in life. Not to get around this city, not to run your house, not to go to school, not to do most jobs and I mean being an auto mechanic, too. Here I go lecturing again. But its something you got to learn. I can help you, the other blind people can help you." Picking up my cane, I arose. "I'll be back tomorrow. I'll tell the cops you aren't ready to talk to them yet. Thanks."
     I met Detective Dworick out in the hallway. The hospital social worker was there too; a guy that I didn't know and Dworick told me before coming out that he was a mother-hen type. "Any good, Sam?"
      "No and yes. First, he can't seem to recall anything about the shooting. I get the feeling he's playing straight there."
      "You shouldn't push him yet. Doctor said, with this type of injury there will be confusion. He'll require an uncertain period of time for healing." Butted in the worker.
      With no recognition to what the worker said I hit the second point, "On the blindness part of it, he knows about it and feels pretty overwhelmed. I think we'll have to go around and around on that one before I'd say how he'll come out on it." Thinking to myself, this was the most common starting point for the average person's adjustment process. After all, with the negative press most people have seen about blindness down through the years, how else were they to react when they found themselves face to face with it? Its not surprising to find that in an effort to initially live with it, most of us avoid it and anything to do with it; which of course is the opposite to what needs to be done in order to get through the adjustment the quickest and most successfully. "I'll be back in the morning and we'll try it again."
      Leaving the hospital grounds, needing to wear off some inner-tension, I walked passed several bus stops where I could have caught a ride. Instead, I headed down into a local park, figuring I would catch the bus over on the other side. The walk felt good. This area of town was mostly well kept up middle class homes and the park was quiet. Striding along I took in all that was around me; conscious of time and place always helped me relax and get centered. There were a few kids out here getting late afternoon ball games going and from time to time I was passed up by joggers out working on their aerobics. A blind traveler I am, but unaware I am not.
      At the bus stop I got back into thinking about Ricky and his situation. Working out strategies to employ in a case was as important to the counselor embarked upon rehab, as it is to the crime detective working on a case. First, one needed to develop an accurate picture of the situation, of the scene. Second, identify the players. Third, farad out motive for behavior. Finally, come to some resolution.
     Ricky was flat on his back, his head aching. His eyes weren't working and no hope they ever would. He was starting to feel his life as he had known it was essentially over. When he wasn't worrying about what might happen, he couldn't remember what had happened to cause it all.
     The other players, the people most closely involved were his family. There were his fiancee and young son who he soon would be living with. There were also his grandparents, in whose house he was presently residing. I would need to meet all of them and figure out where they were with his blindness.
     For the motive or attitudes in this case, there would be Ricky, his wife to be, his child, his grandparents, any other family, friends, his employer and fellow co-workers. All of these people touched on Ricky's life and would need to make an adjustment to his blindness too. My intention was to meet with these people singly and in groups. I felt certain that with my skills in counseling and persuasion I could get them to a higher level of awareness and acceptance of a person's ability to handle blindness than where they were today. Again, here too was another place where I often used the analogy relating to that old saying "Walk a mile in my moccasins;" the task was to get these sight oriented people to try on the shoes of the blind.
      Standing waiting on the bus, engrossed with the dynamics of Ricky's case, I still had part of my ear and brain oriented on my surroundings; the traffic to my front, the park inhabitants to my rear, the encompassing sounds of the neighborhood in general. It was no surprise then when I became aware of a set of furtive and rapidly closing footfalls coming at me from behind and to the left. Through the grass from within the park they came, changing from heel to toe as they neared, coming lightly over the sidewalk to my immediate rear and directly to my exposed back. I didn't move.
      "Samuel!" Came a second after the two hands clamped down upon my shoulders. The short guy that own the big voice and quick hands was a friend of mine.
     "Charlemagne." Saying this in a bored but friendly tone. "What you do'n over here? Trying to sneak one over on somebody?" He was quite the character, a stand out by his looks and reputation. He was one of these out-going people who always wore flashy clothes, broad grin and was suspected of doing some back alley dealing. He was legally blind and we were old schoolmates, both well known within the blind community, but where I at times worked with the police, he tried to avoid then.
      "Hey man, you mean to tell me that though you be blind, you got eyes in the back of your head that works?" This bantering jive was his normal conversational mode with me.
      "Well now Charlemagne, putting it back on you. Though you are quick of mind, glib of tongue and can pull the wool over most people's eyes, those big flat feet of yours in those fancy custom made shoes that chink when you walk are easy to recognize no matter where they go." Referring to the anatomical fact he was build like a man of six foot three that had been pushed down into a five foot three frame with fallen down arches.
      "Hey now! Don't be belittle'n my threads. That there's the sign I be making it. Your out-side look be what the world knows you by. Giving my cane a short shake, then adding, "This here, it be the part that do it for you, bro."
      "A man or a blind man?" I said, giving him a jive back knowing he was referring to what most of the world would see first about me. Furthermore what they would associate in the use of the long white cane, see it as a badge of disability, where those of us who use it know it is a symbol of independence.
      "Hee, hee, you still try'n to change the world ain't you, Mr. Sam? Still out here rehabilitat'n attitudes."

2

      The second day in Ricky's case began with the announcement of another shooting. Though any killing of people was disturbing, this one bothered me more than usual. It happened to a friend of mine. I heard about it over the radio before heading out to work. The station's crime reporter described it, "There was another suspected drug related homicide over night on the near- north side. Officers of the police department report they were called at 030 this morning to where a nude body of a black male was found in an alley. It was later identified by finger printing to be that of Leroy Charlemagne Wilson, A local minor drug dealer. Investigating officers state that right now circumstances surrounding this latest killing are not known."
     I couldn't believe it or it was more I didn't want to accept it. I knew basically what he, Charlemagne was about and how he lived, on the edge. He had been unemployed and living on SSI. He'd tried working or should I say looking for a job. However, jobs in the ghetto even without the added factors of no high school diploma or GED and being legally blind made fulfilling this employment requirement or dream tough.
      The more I felt through my reaction to his death the more I found myself pulled down into an emotional whirlpool. It was where the forces of good and evil mixed it up with normal versus disability, societal justice versus injustice, to finally wondering if when the culprit or culprits are caught, should they be forced to pay the same price as they had given my friend.
      Before taking off I put a call into the police department. I wanted to see if Dworick could give me any more details about Charlemagne. Dworick was black too and didn't like seeing the north side go through its problems. He wasn't in. I knew he'd get the message and get back to me later. Calling and dealing with the cops on this one was only going to be a start. Before the day was out I planned to be making a series of calls. I knew a lot of people around town who knew Charlemagne.
     When younger, Charlemagne was one of these people who at different times either attended regular public school or the one for the blind. This had made him easily accepted into both the sighted and the non-sighted worlds. Furthermore, over the years he had belonged to a variety of different types of consumer groups catering to the interests of persons living in economic depressed neighborhoods, church, race and the issues of the blind. He had gotten around every where. So I wanted to put some feelers out. On one hand I didn't want to mess up anything Dworic had going, nonetheless I wasn't going to sit on my hands either.
      Later walking into Ricky's room for my second visit, I found him with company. There were four men sitting or standing all talking to him or one another. They all sounded black. With my arrival they all went silent. Easily intimidated I'm not, although I sure was aware my entrance into the room had squelched all conversation. Filling in the gap, I said, "Howdy Ricky, Samuel Patrick here again. You've got company. I could come back in a little while?"
      Ricky wasn't the first to speak. "Hey Ricky, we be leaving now. You take care." The others giving a few words of encouragement and all four of them filed out of the door.
      Not giving me a moment to settle in, Ricky said, "You could've made an appointment."
      Recalling yesterday's style of interaction with this guy I answered in a reasonable tone. "Told you yesterday afternoon I'd be back today. Guess we didn't agree upon the hour." Then going along with what seemed to have become our continued mutually agreed upon passive aggressive tolerance, I sat down. He was sitting up and seemed a lot stronger today. Coming into the ward the nurses told me he was now being encouraged to be up and to get out of bed, however he had been showing reluctance to be moving about on his own. Because of this they were concerned he might end up hurting himself and were asking him to buzz them when he needed to get up to go to the bathroom or anything like that. With this change in mind, seeing him, knowing the quicker a person can get moving back under their own power the better, I thought I would see if I could get him better oriented to his surroundings. "Know your way around this room yet?" Waiting to see if he would have a rejoinder. But all I got was silence. Then narrowing down to the specifics. "If you need to get from your bed to the bathroom to take a piss, how would you make it? Can you do that?"
      "Can't find it," he said, falling silent.
      "Why not? Where's it from where you sit?"
     "By the door."
      "Where is the door?"
      The answer didn't come for a moment, then still in that tone of sullen honesty, "Can't see it. Don't know."
      We were now down to brass tacks, a starting place. Just wish it wasn't so darn hard to talk with him. Going on, "Right, but can you hear it?" It was quiet, in the room, in the hallway too. Then voices from down the hallway came floating through the open door; this auditory portal being to the foot of his bed and straight to the right. With the fact he hadn't picked up on the position of his room's door to this point in his hospital stay, I had a thought and hoped it wouldn't be true; he was suffering from a brain injury more extensive than just to the optical lobe. I hoped he had only been overwhelmed with pain, grief and all that and just hadn't felt good enough to put the nonvisual aspects of his surroundings together. A head injury in some cases can cause serious problems in the ability to identify the direction of sound and worse impair your ability to figure and use spacial orientation; all important for the person functioning blind.
      Then he said, his voice pointing in the direction from where the sounds had come, "To the right." Said this time in a less gruff and resistive manner.
      "Correct. Like I've been saying, there is more to the world then a picture. There's also a world of sound, touch, smells and tastes which all go along with most everything there is to see. Like this doorway of yours, see it or not, those sounds are always there. You and I just have to think about using them; get use to using all these other bits of information more now than ever before." Stopping, I waited to see if he'd come back at me with anything. But with him being quiet again, I mentally and empathy wise backed up and said, "I realize you have lost the main sense you've been using all your life, that's hard. However like I'm saying, you need to learn to use your other five senses more than before; hearing, touch, sense of smell, taste, and your common sense." Again, waiting, but with nothing coming from him, asking, "You follow?"

     With a deep breath and some stirring, he got up. I sat there sending vibes of encouragement. I wasn't going to move to lend a hand unless it became necessary. It was my philosophy as a teacher, that we best learned functional alternatives like what he was faced with through what is called structured discovery learning; provide information, skills, check on understanding and let the student put it together. With him not giving me a chance to give him anything more to work with, I felt it wise now to say, "In the beginning, play it safe and follow the furniture and walls. You can cut corners later. A long white cane will help with that." With some deep breathing sounding like a combination of general nervousness of a man not long out of a lengthy stay in bed, he got moving. He took my advice and basically went hand over hand along the wall and all those obstacles on his side of the room; bed to night-stand, to closet door and around to the open bathroom door where he closed it behind him. I listened and could hear him urinating. Thank god I didn't hear any bodies hitting the deck; the nurses I'm sure would have decked me because of having a hand in it.
      Soon he was out and reversing his route. Back in bed there was again silence. I figured I'd better find out if we were going to work together and if so under what conditions. This one-way crap or rehabilitation by sparring was getting old. I needed to know where he stood. "So Ricky, tell me. Do you want to work with me on your blindness?"
      Again he didn't answer right away. I was definitely beginning to think this was a control thing for him. However as he had come through at every point up to now, he finally said, "Got no choice, I'd say. Doctors tell me I got all I'm gonna get, noth'n." A pause, I waited him out. "Suppose you ain't got a black counselor?" Said with the emphasis on "black."
      "No, not right now on staff. Have had and basically we'll hire anyone good who comes along no matter the color or if they can see or not. So for you, I'm it." We were both quiet. However I needed more and said, "I asked you something yesterday, it would help if we discuss it. What do you know about blindness?"
      "Noth'n." But to the contrary he went on, "Know about Stevey Wonder, Ray Charles, like that. Know it ain't good for most things."
      Like a counselor will at times do, pick up on a key phrase, I repeated back to him, "Not good for most things. What do you mean?"
      "Shit!" Starting out in discussed and getting angry as he got into it. "Don't give me any of that psychology double talk. Being blind is half way to being dead. You can't see. Can't read or drive. Can't go places on your own and can't even protect yourself. People pitying you. Who in hell's gonna want you?"
      Letting him run down, get it off his chest, spilling out his greatest fears was giving us a base line to work from. We now had a starting point. My first comment would be to agree with him, to set him up. "Yeah, it can be that bad. Even worse if you get down and work against yourself. I've even seen some end up in nursing homes." Figuring I'd better stop on that note of dire consequence. I only wanted to give him a sense of empathy, and not a worse case of the negatives before I tried to convince him of just the opposite. "But mostly I've seen people fight through this initial tough stage and learn what they need to get back on their feet." Stopping to judge his response. Nothing, just breathing, he was listening, I went on, "I hear you have a job, a trade. You're planning to get married. Got a son too. Being a parent is a serious job. Hell, just do'n for yourself is a big job." Wanting to pile on responsibilities to push him and see if his pride would crack under the sheer weight of these potential failures. "Before your blindness you had to work for them. Think you're less smart now? You still want these things don't you?"
      "All right, Mr. Patrick." Said with a heavy stress on the "Mr.!" "I suppose its gonna be you and me. But I call the shots." More of that control stuff again.
      "No." Answering this last statement of his. Then trying to qualify it. "No to the way I think you mean call the shots. Like only you say what, where, when and how. But yes, if we both agree to lay out our cards on the table and negotiate a plan cooperatively; we got to work together on this. Yeah, its your life, you got to make choices, however you're needing what I have." He didn't respond right off, nevertheless I knew he was still with me.
      "What you say we do?" He finally said, a reasonable question, a realistic starting point.
      "First talk. Second, start working on some of the basic skills like cane travel, Braille, independent living skills for the home and pretty soon take a look at your job. Start learning here, then at your home and seriously consider going to one of our training centers. You've also got to meet some other blind folks, like come to one of our local peer group meetings." I could hear him reacting to some of what I was saying.
      "This cane shit!" Rapid, ragged breathing and I could imagine him compressing his lips and clenching his fists. "Man! You know what you ask'n?"
      Thinking I knew what he was not saying. Nevertheless asking, "What's that?"
      "That's like ask'n for trouble. Say'n, here I am! Come pick me clean!" All said in a high pitched dramatic voice.
      "Ricky," trying to sound reasonable. "The facts on this issue of a cane making you a target is pure bull." He was listening. "If you know what you're do'n and look like it, then that's what you show. If I don't know all the blind folks in this city, than I sure know ninety-nine percent of them. The facts are they are not being mugged any more than anyone else."
      His reaction wasn't a surprise. Knowing from experience, my clients who live in a predatory environment wish to avoid any overt signs of weakness. The conception here with Ricky, this newly blinded sighted guy, was the disabled are seen as being less than normal, weaker, thus vulnerable. So carrying a white cane labeled you, made you an obvious target. Which of course was not necessarily true.
      "My experience tells me, and also the cops and a bunch of blind guys I can put you in touch with, is that what you do is what you get. Hell, you know it...you show weakness, you're open and easy picknes. To avoid that, you get smart and strong." Waiting to see if I had any impact. Nothing and it was hard to know if he was reacting to blindness on this or still on the crime side.
      "Ricky, tell me. How many blind people do you know that's been hit?" Seeing if he had any thing solid to base his reaction on.
      "Naa." The negative was all he gave me. So I thought I'd better punch him with another reality, "Ricky, fact man, you haven't got your eyes to get you around any more. This cane and your brain is what you've got now. With out the cane, you've got little to no independent travel. Sure, you can get a dog. A guide dog, they work too or you can be lead around by another person. Anyway you go, to live any kind of life with independence you'll need to travel."
      Butting in, talking again at last. "Travel'n, not sure where I'd want to be go'n. But what about a dog? They can be attack dogs too?"
     This one I had heard before. "Dogs do work well for some people. Let me put it to you this way. The animals they normally choose are bred for intelligence and I guess I'd call it a calm temperament. They neuter them too. Sure, you can get one which along with your bonding with them they may also have a temperament where they'd try to protect you in some situations. However understand, they aren't trained to be any type of guard dog along with the guiding duties." Stopping to see if he would react to any of this, knowing any type of independent travel was one of the biggest boost to a blind person regaining their sense of self confidence.
      "How come you don't have one?" A fair question, one I have been asked many times.
      "Because I don't want one. First, because I don't want the hassle." Thinking I'd better qualify this. "As I see it, having one around would require some work I feel I would rather not have. Like the care for one while we were out. Making sure there was room to park it. Taking care of things like toileting, feeding and watering and just all that. I don't want it. Then second, I don't need one for travel. Like I say, with my cane and my brain there isn't a place I can't go alone." Trying to stress with these two options the concepts of personal choice and ability.
      "How they work?" Assuming he meant the dogs.
      "Essentially, they are to guide you down a path. They make sure you don't run into or fall off of things, and don't allow other things to run into you. I mean, its up to you to know where you're going and you tell them foreword, right or left. In fact, you must have basic travel skills first, before they will give you the dog. Think about it, you can't just give the dog an address and expect it to take you there."
      "Gotta use a cane first," said with resignation. "Does it gotta be white?" Hitting me like, is this a sample of the guy's sense of humor or does his aversion to whites spill over to anything that color?
      "Tell you the truth, I don't know. Symbolizes something I guess. Paint it black, no one will stop you." Making sure I said this last part with a total lack of inner or outer sign of sarcasm. "Nevertheless, learning to use the long cane is good stuff. We teach it to all folks. From little kids up to little old ladies. Think you can handle it?" Thinking over my phrasing of this question later, I believe I could have asked it better. What I had been trying to ask was, "Are you up to starting?"
      His answer was to get what I would consider to be a little hot, on the defensive side. "I can do it as good as you!"
     "Okay, then we will start tomorrow." Silence. I was beginning to get my rhythm with this guy. Let him make a rejoining statement giving me an opening and then I drop a challenge on him. I'd worked with a few like this before, a serious type who when they said they'll do something, even though it is presented in a "top that" challenging way, you knew they'd do it. "I'll drop in about ten in the morning and bring you your first cane. We'll start with the basic two point touch technique here in your room and branch out into the hallways." Thinking this was a good start to the subject of travel, however we'd needed to get on to other topics as well, I went on to say, "How about other areas? Tell me where else you think you'll be having problems functioning?" This opening was always interesting for the counselor. What the client thought or didn't think would be a problem was important. Most times it gave yet another reading on their knowledge of blindness, a window on how they viewed their own ability and how they think others will view them.

3

     Today is going to be my first home visit with Ricky. It is his second day home; his shooting being four weeks and a day ago. His recovery had gone quick. The doctors attributed it to his good physical conditioning and strong will. That first week had been hard on him, depression and the like, although after deciding he was going to live, he had taken control of himself and pushed to get home. Our relationship was now into the third week of knowing one another and working together. He still didn't like me much, and if I were to characterize our relationship, I would say it had fallen into a pattern of willing teacher and begrudging student. I had seen him about every other day, finding him to be a quick learner, figuring out on his own a lot of the alternatives relating to functioning blind. There again, we still had a problem with his willingness to be seen out in public with a cane; being on again, off again. He had picked up the basic technique fast, however getting him out of his room with it had been like pulling teeth.
      Today is to be our first travel lesson out in his neighborhood. It would also be my first opportunity to meet his grandparents and hopefully his fiancee and son, too. Up to now, each time I came to visit him they had either just left or were coming later. It was my feeling Ricky had engineered this missing of family and the "white counselor." We'd see what came about today and if not, I'd work on him and I felt it would happen eventually.
      As it is my habit to check on an appointment which in any way felt shaky, I phoned Ricky's to make sure we were still on. An older black man answered, his grandfather. "Praise the Lord," The nature of this hello made me wonder if there was something about Ricky that he hadn't told me.
      "Mr. Bennet?" The response coming back over the ear-piece told me I had gotten this first and most crucial part of the call correct; having checked in my notes to get names of family before calling in case Ricky himself didn't answer. "This is Samuel Patrick, Ricky's counselor from the Services For The Blind. I am calling to make sure our appointment for this afternoon is still on. May I speak to him, please?"
      The tone Of his answer was reminiscent of that old black to white deference of a generation ago. "Yes sir, Mr. Patrick. We are expecting you this afternoon. We'll have Ricky ready for you."
      "Thank you, two is the time then, correct?" Figuring I'd better not assume we were talking about the same time.
      "Yes, sir." A hesitation, then, "Mr. Patrick, will you become'n by car or by bus?"
      This question puzzled me at first, then I thought I understood. Playing along, I said, "By bus. It should get me within two blocks of your home in just enough time to knock at your door right at two."
      "Yes sir. We'll be watching for you. You can't be too careful these days." Knowing what he meant involved calling several of his neighbors up and down the block from the bus stop to his home, alerting them to watch out for me As I entered their territory.
      In the recent past I'd had several of my clients in the rougher areas of town tell me this was what they found it necessary to do for safty's sake. Call it "neighborhood watch." Nevertheless, as people will do when circumstances dictate, they will look out for one another.
      Answering Ricky's grandfather on this one came with full recognition and appreciation. "Thank you, Mr. Bennet. I will look foreword to meeting you and your wife." Hanging up, I had wanted to have a chance to ask him for information about his grandson, unfortunately I had heard Ricky in the near background conversing with who I took to be his grandmother, I didn't ask. I'd look for the chance at a later date to se what I can get.
      When two o'clock rolled around I was indeed at their door. The walk down from the bus stop had been uneventful. I met one older man out working in his flowers. He wished me a pleasant day and underscored another fact I had observed over the years in my travels about the city. Generally it is the older person who is most friendly and even than, more often it is the non-whites who are the friendliest.
     My knock was answered byRicky's grandfather. "Come in Mr. Patrick, sir." After the shaking of hands, I followed him into what I took to be the living room. It felt to be a largish rectangle. My mental picture had it full of over sized furniture; an old fassion clock ticked across the room, a TV with volume down low sat off to the right in the far corner. Sounds coming through a doorway told me someone was moving around in what I took to be the kitchen; shoes in contact with a linoleum covered floor. I listened for Ricky. Not hearing him I assumed he must be upstairs or in another room; not the person in the kitchen.
      My cane came in contact with the bottom portion of an upfolstried piece of furniture I thought to be the couch, Mr. Bennet announced, "Ricky." Surprise, he was sitting right in front of me! He hadn't made a sound I could pick up on. I reflexively put out my hand, started to find his. But with no move on his part to respond in kind, I did a double take on who I was dealing with and allowed my hand to continue rising up to the handle of my cane. I said, "Howdy Ricky. Feel good to be home?"
      In his usual style he didn't respond right off. "Good afternoon, Mr. Patrick." He was still giving the Mr. an obvious twist.
      After a brief introduction to Mrs. Bennet and with the two grandparents leaving, seated across from Ricky I asked, "Got your cane near by?"
     He must have had it right there at his feet. Picking it up I could hear him running his hands over it, like he hadn't seen it before. Finally saying, "Still can't see where you can make much of a weapon out of this."
      Not a real strange comment, though not on the topic of its use I was there to instruct him in. "Yes, it can be used for that purpose, in fact in several different ways. However along the lines of a travel tool is where I'm coming from today." Not saying I wouldn't cover its function as a weapon at some meeting. Just that right now I didn't want this session to be redirected.
     Going on like he hadn't heard or possibly just to show me he had and he'd deal with my topic when he was ready, he leaned forward, picked up something from the coffee table at his feet and said, "This is what I prefer for a weapon."
      "Click, Click, Click, Click." The unmistakeable spinning of a revolver's"cylinder.
      I was tempted to ignore this, yet I thought before I would take us back to the cane and my purpose for being there today, I'd better find out how big this weapon thing was. "What do you have?"
      "44 magnum, bulldog." It didn't take much to visualize that short barreled pistol with the big bore.
      "Mean weapon. I have a sawed-off 12 gage pump for my protection at home." Giving "home" the stress. "You leave that at home?" Asking but not asking.
      "We go'n out, right?"
      "Yeah but, Ricky not with that, man." Pausing to give him a chance to respond. Nothing. "Tell me, you any good at firing that thing in the dark?" Wanting to make a point, see if he was thinking at all of what he was intending. He gave a snort, one I read as a "Oh yeah."
      "There are night shooting ranges where a guy can get some training. I mean, how many wild slugs can we afford to have flying around this town?" Wondering how he would react to this last comment.
      "Yeah," he sighed and set the gun back down on the table. "But a guy got to watch out for himself." Something I basically agreed with. A fact in life which is always true, though at times regrettably too true.
      Getting him up I asked for a short review of the basic technique for the cane, the two point touch technique.
      "Hold it at the middle of your body, about belt high. You wanna tap it just a little wider than your body."
      "How high for the arc?"
      "Well ah, just wanna clear the ground. Not get high because you might miss some stuff coming up." Which was true, like on-coming curbs or other types of step-ups or small obstacles and the like.
      He shuffled his feet and said, "With the feet you wanna step on the opposite side to where the tap is."
      "Correct, why?" Wanting to see if he had taken in the rationale for this coordination.
      "Ah," a frown appearing in his voice. "It has to do with, Ah, take'n advantage of the length of the cane and how you can clear the longest distance in front of your leg to know that noth'n is out there." Tapping the cane out in front of his right leg, which he had shifted to place to his rear. "Like right now its at my right. That foot is back behind, so that's two strides of ground I know is clear here on this side." Again tapping the cane for emphasis, he went on, "Now I can step forward and arc to the left to check out in front on that side and when that tap comes down over there, my right heel hits at the same time. And if all's clear over there, noth'n in the way and no drop-off, I know its okay for that leg to come on ahead."
      Turning toward me, tone in his voice earnest, skirting on the edge of defiance; I believe wanting to let me know he had the technical sense to figure these things out. "Its just checking out the lay of the land before you step into it. Using this cane as a probe."
      "Right, all of it. How you're holding it? How you do'n that?"
      "I like point'n the finger down the shaft. Its like aiming a gun." Referring to using the index finger to lay down the length of the shaft to help in knowing where you were pointing the cane. I had also shown him a golf-grip with the palm up and one called the pencil-grip. I find each cane user develops his or her own preference as to which is most comfortable an effective; no one way is solely correct and absolute.
      "Sounds good. Then how do you hold it when you get into close quarters?" What he had shown me thus far related to using the cane at full extension, the general method for operating in open uncluttered surroundings.
      "Ah." Hearing him fiddling with his cane. "You just slide your hand down the shaft and grip it like a pencil. Hold it more close in and straight up and down."
      "Right again. And still arc it too, no matter what. That cane has got to work for you like your eyes used to." Thinking he did have the basic technique down. Now it would be a matter of him learning to employ it out traveling and enough to feel confident with it. He was ready by what my expectations were for a student at this stage. Now we needed to see how far we could go today. "So Ricky, you ready to hit the streets?"
      He hesitated some, however to his credit he answered, "Yeah. Don't have to like it." He didn't sound like he liked it at all. Nevertheless he turned and headed toward the front door.
      On the porch I had him stop and review the technique for descending a flight of stairs. "First you find the drop." The sound of his cane scraping back and forth along the edge of the step. "Then you get yourself squared with it. Make sure you're over to the right. Then find the next step down and go." And he did, down the five wooden steps to the concrete sidewalk, still explaining as he went. "You also have your cane out and down one step below where you are so you can find the landing before you get there." Which was the more advanced method; beyond finding and checking each next step until you reach the bottom. It was easy to tell he knew these techniques and enjoyed showing it off. This pride in a student was always a good thing to see. I knew I'd be using it, feeding into it to get him to respond to some of what I knew he needed to experience.
      "Very good." And I am sure he could tell I was smiling and telling him what I honestly felt. "We have a choice of which way we go from here. Do you have a preference?" I usually gave a student the choice of direction in a travel lesson where any kind of experience would be a good experience. Later I would have specific areas or obstacles I would want him to experience and would direct him to them. But now I preferred to go the direction which would make him most comfortable.
      "Ah, right." The direction I traveled to get to his house. Three streets down was the busy street where the bus line ran. The walk would be through a quiet neighborhood until we approached the sounds of the heavy flow of traffic on that main thoroughfare. This route would be good for its mixture; he needed experience in both types of environments.
     I allowed him a couple of strides before I followed. Part of my training technique would be to follow him in this fashion and at other times at his side or front. Following from the rear would give me the opportunity to observe the width, placement and consistency of his arc; if not wide enough his body would block the sound of the tap.
      Walking down his grandfather's front walk toward the street he moved slowly for the level of cockiness he liked to portray. But that was all right for now. Later with more competence, speed would be in order.
      As he walked I took a scan around the neighborhood. There were no cars moving on the street in either direction. There did seem to be more people activity. There were kids down the block in both directions. Across the street and down where we were to travel three or possibly four adults conversed. It also smelled like someone was firing up a barbecue.
      Getting to the intersection of the parallel walk to the shorter walk we traveled down, Ricky didn't catch its existence. He kept on going straight ahead toward the curb. Not being sure he'd catch the drop off when he came to the street I moved around him, got to the curb first, stepped down into the gutter and waited.
      He didn't read his cane correctly, did miss the drop-off, hit me on the leg with his cane and stopped. "What's this?" Tapping me again.
      "My leg."
      "What are you do'n, testing me?" Not sounding mad, butpuzzled.
      "There was something you missed before you got me and I planted myself here to get your attention." Later I'd allow him to find these mistakes on his own.
      "Huh?" He was puzzled now.
      "Take a look around with your cane." Wanting to get him to find out what was what by himself.
      He started at my leg, tapped off to the lift a short distance, drugged its tip back to me. Next arced it off to the right back up on the grass of the boulevard. "Just grass over here and you over there." Still sounding puzzled but interested.
      "Try dragging your tip from there on the grass back over to where I'm standing."
      "Oh, shit!" he said as his tip plummeted off the curb, down on to the street.
      "Right, the curb and street."
      "How'd I get here?"
      "Where's here?" I needed to know just where he thought he was.
      "Ah, at the street."
      "Sure, which street?"
      "Ah, out front of the house."
      "Correct. What happen to get you here?" Again wanting to see if this student could figure out what he had done wrong and needed to do to correct it.
      "Missed the sidewalk."
      "Yep, the east-west one."
      "How you know which way is east or west?" Delivered in that old half belligerent tone. He just couldn't let me show knowledge of something without challenging me on it. I believe he did it when he was in doubt of the answer himself.
      "Let me ask you this. Do you feel the sun? Where is it hitting you?" He was still facing me.
      "On my left ear."
      "Think of what time of day it is and where the sun should be right now." He was quiet, I knew he was computing all this.
      "Yeah, I get you. Never thought of using it for direction." Which was quite a statement, because it was the first time he admitted he didn't know something. I also noted, here was another person in this modern day world who didn't use this very obvious direction indicator in the sky.
      Getting himself straightened out we were again heading east on the walk which paralleled the street. Along with observing, I was trying not to give him any audio cues that might provide him information to go on; wanting him to work things out as if I wasn't there. What I noted right off, was he didn't quite have the step and tap down on a consistent basis, however this usually came last. There again, his speed was picking up; something that would help to keep a consistent line of direction and avoid drifting up driveways which can be a real frustrating problem for some beginners.
      "Got your hand centered?" I asked. Another important part of the technique I would periodically query or reach out and physically check a new student on; it was important to get going as soon as possible in order to keep that protective arc placed to best cover your body.
      Walking along through this neighborhood of mostly blacks with its many unique cultural sounds and smells made me think of my old friend Charlemagne. He had lived in a similar setting. I had visited him there on and off for years. With his death, murder, it was sad to think these streets would never again experience his unique influence. In the several weeks and more which have passed since the night he was found in the alley, not much had been discovered to give us any leads to his murderer. I hadn't dug up anything of use and Dworic and his crew hadn't either. At one point I questioned how hard the cops were working at it. However knowing the facts I did about his case, I knew we didn't have anything to go on. I contacted nearly all the people I could think of who Charlemagne and I had mutually known; no one knew anything. I too had gone through that alley and interviewed people in the neighboring houses with no positive result; thinking I as a non-cop, a non-threatening blind guy could get some scrap of information that would help. I even followed through on a wild idea concerning the disposal of his missing clothes. It involved working my way through some of the second-hand clothing stores to see if any of his missing threads had turned up. But the effort was to no avail. You'd think they'd done something with them? They hadn't shown up anywhere else. The result, another north side killing was going unsolved. His killer or killers were safe to run around out there.
      Nearing the end of his block, Ricky's neighbors who had been talking across the street noticed us working on our side. They stopped talking and one of them called out. "That's all right Ricky! You learn that cane walking. But don't you forget, you'll be able to see again when you get to heaven."
      Calling back, Ricky didn't miss a step. "Mary Bell you know I gotta clean up my act before they let me in there!"
      I couldn't believe this exchange, his half anyway. I mean, I too had received several calls or promises over the years like this one. Most times they come at you with good will, however if you really think about what is intended, sometimes it comes carrying the message, "You pitiful thing, though you suffer now, it'll be better once you've died and been healed." Another sign of the public's non-acceptance of blindness. There again, what I felt interesting about this lady's comment, was that in the first part of her message she gave encouragement to learn to use the cane. Most new travel students could use more of this kind of comment.
      Crossing the first street went smoothly. He picked up on the curb, waited listening for traffic, detecting nothing coming, crossed. He went relatively straight, but at the last swerved about four feet to the north, found the walk, continued on east. All through this he didn't say a word to me. On my part I gave him some verbal feedback at what I felt were critical moments; information and/or praise, all of it with an eye toward a two way sharing of feelings and information in order to maximize his learning. But on he went in silence, definitely out to make this lesson and me bend to his will. Nevertheless I felt he was learning, had what it takes to acquire this skill.
      Nearing the end of this first block away from Ricky's, there were several little kids playing on a front porch. Before we came abreast of them I could tell they were swinging on a porch swing, crooning a tuneless ditty. Something like, "swinging high, swinging low, high and low, high and low."
      Seeing us they stopped and asked, "You blind?"
      Ricky didn't answer. When they asked a second time I spoke up, "Yes. We're out learning to get around with our canes." For emphasis I raised my cane.
      "How you do that walking? How you know where you at?"
      In answer I gave them one of my favorite sayings, "with our canes and our brains."
      As we moved on Ricky still quietly leading, I could hear the new ditty the kids were crooning, "The cane and the brain, the cane and the brain."
      The second crossing was much like the first. Midway along the block, we were passing where the older gentleman had been gardening. He was no longer working in his yard, however reaching his driveway we could hear him working on a car.
      "CLINK!" The sound of some type of hand tool striking the concrete. "Damn!" he said in a tone which made you think this wasn't the first time he had dropped a wrench or part of the car.
      Always looking for a new way to get into a clients interests, I walked toward this guy and ask, "Excuse me, sir. Having some problem? May we help?" Ricky stopped too.
      "Its this air filter cover. The old cars used a big easy wing-nut to hold them on. This one here has those funny clips. Can't get it put back together. Now I dropped my pliers under the car."
      At the fender where I could hear him standing I bent down, laid my cane flat on the driveway and swept it under the car where I knew the pliers ought to be. The sixty-five inches of the cane quickly covered more ground then what a searching hand could. Finding and scooting them out, I didn't ofer them to the guy. "If you don't mind I'll take a stab at it. I do some of my own maintenance, too. Not sure I have the same clips as you." Turning, finding what must be the lid of the unit in question. "But we'll give it a look-see."
      By now Ricky and the gentleman were talking. I could tell they knew one another. It was also evident this guy knew Ricky was a mechanic. A minute hadn't passed before Ricky was pushing his way up to the car and wanting to take over.
      He had it together in short order. "These clips need tension while you lay them on and that's got to be done right or you're in trouble."
     Finished, we were ready to leave when the man said, "Thanks gentlemen." Then to Ricky, "See you ain't lost your touch."
      I wasn't sure how Ricky reacted to all of this, however he made sounds like he'd accept the thanks.
      Getting back on track coming up to the end of this second full block, the traffic sounds from the four lane street ahead made our approach to the end of the block an easy thing to pick up on. Ricky's changing pace made it evident he was fully aware of its nearing presence. He was reacting like most new travel students around heavy traffic, slowing down to a crawl a long ways before necessary. I took the grass to his right and cut around in order to be in front as he came to the end of the block. This was to further observe his technique and as a safety measure too.
      "Mr. Patrick?" Still hitting the "Mr." unnecessarily hard, his voice was easy to hear over the traffic sounds to my rear. He had stopped I judged to be about two cane lengths back from the sidewalk which paralleled the busier street. I am sure he wasn't aware of my location.
      Walking over to his side, still wanting to draw him out at any opportunity, I asked, "What's up?" I really did want this guy to learn these skills, however I wasn't going to make it too easy by providing him with the questions he should be asking; wanting to teach him to think for himself.
      "What we gonna do here?" Asked with a tilt to it which made it mean either "enlighten me" or "I'm not sure if I like this?"
      "Take a look at a busy street." Leaving it back up to him.
      No response at first. He was quiet, standing there making me wonder if he was reacting to this situation as a new and some what frighten blind guy or was it a conscious and/or unconscious reaction to the last time he faced a busy street and was shot in the head. Finally he said, "What's there to see?" Giving it a definite sarcastic spin.
      "RICKY, trust me. Right now we'll do this a step at a time. You'll want to be able to go places. You'll have to be able to handle all types of streets. Tell me, what do you think you'll need to know about doing that and I'll fill in the blanks."
      With his pride leading, and his honest good sense he said, "Suppose I need to get used to the sound. Know how far its between me and the street when I come up on one. And I suppose know how to cross it." Which captured the long and short of it.
     "Yes, those are important. How close do you think you are to the street right now?"
      "Ah?" The backwash of three cars in close succession reaching us as they passed in the nearest lane. "About twenty feet."
      "About right I'd say. Walk up and find the curb."
     Slow, cautious, scraping his cane tip back and forth across the concrete of the walk as wide as his arc should be, he moved ahead. I kept pace with him at his side until I heard his tip slide off the curb and stop.
      Asking him, but more just telling him, "Feel them? Hear them?" One car right at our front, two in two lanes away, a truck in the third lane out going the opposite direction, then a bus just off the curb less then a cane length away. He may have flinched, but he stood his ground.
     "Think about it. You know the dimensions of these four lane streets. From that, you know the relative distance those vehicles should be from us. Listen to them coming at us. Check out their sounds and the length of time it takes them to get here and be gone." Stopping allowing this to sink in, not wanting to hit all the factors for him, however not wanting to assume too much either. Bottom line, wanting him to do the important processing himself.
      "How you cross?" Said in a genuine tone of questioning.
     Doing my discovery learning thing again I asked, "Ricky, what do you think?"
      "Wait for a break. Go like hell." Said in a tone reminiscent of comradeship making me want to believe he was coming around out of his surliness.
      "You're right. Just pay attention. Before, you watched their movement. Now, you listen to that same movement. You still read the traffic flow and act accordingly. Want to go down to the next corner here to the south?" Being off to our right. "We could check out the flow there at a light-controlled crossing."
      Not saying anything in return to me, he began moving off. Guess we weren't buddies yet.
      On our way there, I moved around him from the rear to his off-street side. When we got to some bushes along the walk, I again got out in front.
      At the corner, him oriented, we stood not talking, waiting and listening through several light cycles.
      "Yeah I see it." he volunteered.
      "Yeah, get you better behind that cane, then we'll run you across and around some of these." Thinking more and more that he definitely had what it takes. Set his attitude toward me aside, take into account his good common sense, his caring for himself and under that gruff facade, I believed he still wanted to live and love.
      "How about heading back?" I said, but with no immediate answer we continued to stand listening through the finish of a cycle and the start of another.
      Coming across the main street to the east came a set of sounds I recognized; thinking how providential. It was the tapping of a medal tipped cane and someone whistling. The cane told of his blindness, the monotonous tune was a religious hymn.
      Cutting into wherever Ricky was at in his head and/or emotions, I said, "Down there to your left, hear the guy coming? Know who he is?"
      I'm not sure what Ricky thought as I introduced the question, however he quickly oriented himself. "Ah, that a cane?" Recognition coming into his voice. "Oh the Broom Man!" Correctly identifying another very visible member of the blind community.
      The "broom Man" was what most people called him. He was a person of undetermined age who traveled all around town selling his wares. Yet besides being an independent entrepreneur selling various sizes, types of brooms and brushes out of the carrying case slung on his back, he was also an ordained minister.
      "Yep." And as he neared us I spoke up, "Reverend Peachwater. Good afternoon, sir."
      "Samuel." Instant recognition. "What finds you out here on this beautiful day?"
      "Teaching. I'd like you to meet my student, Ricky."
      After shaking hands and a few words lost to me with the sounds of the passing traffic getting rather heavy, the Reverend added for my benefit, "Teach'n the brethren to fish for themselves." Which to me was a reference to my office's philosophy of helping the blind to help themselves.
      However Ricky read it differently. "We aren't no brothers. I've been do'n for myself all my life and am still do'n for me." Said in a tone which still surprised me with its vehemence in pointing out his unacceptance of any closeness in our "the white man to the black man" relationship, yet alone any public acknowledgement for the assistance he was accepting. Though I noted his reference to "still do'n for me" and saw that as evidence of his desire to make it.
      The Reverend came right back at him in kind. "Brother, son, you watch your attitude. Since when does any of us in the eyes of the Lord walk alone, talk alone and learn alone. You put that pride back inside and be a man to this man." Ricky didn't answer. He stood there quiet.
      Having the Reverend there and not having seen him for several weeks I couldn't help but take advantage of the moment. "Reverend, could we talk about Charlemagne for a minute?" Getting a sound that told me he knew of our mutual friend's death, our loss and he would speak of it. "Did you talk with him recently? Did you see him hanging around with anyone?" Have you heard anything from anyone?"
      My line of questioning I am sure didn't surprise the Reverend. He knew I would at times work with the law. And for him personally within the past six months, I helped an older blind woman he had referred to me. There were kids coming into her home, stealing from her as she sat in the room where they stole. So I was comfortable he knew where I was coming from and possibly where my information would go.
      "I did speak with him about three weeks ago at the community center. We had lunch. He was his usual happy-go-lucky self. He didn't have anything new to speak of." Musing for a moment, then going on. "I believe he came there alone. He used to come to that meal site quite often. He liked the old people and they liked him. Although ah, I think that day he did leave with someone. They came and got him in a big car. One of those with the music booming out all over the street. But ah, I don't think that was anything new with him. You know what I mean." Referring to what we both had known of him, the dealing and to his credit, his many friends.
     "Thank you, Reverend." Then acting on a last thought, "You don't recall having anyone asking you for him just before that night?" Building this question on the fact or phenomenon that many of the public think we "the blind," all know one another and are in constant touch. I almost asked him a second question, but thought it may be a bit too ludicrous; had someone lately thought he was Charlemagne? Which on the face of it wasn't impossible, because believe it or not, we the blind are often misidentified and called by some other blind guy's name. Guess some how the white cane makes us all look alike.
      "No." Again he gave his thoughtful answer. "Samuel, I am afraid I can't be of help in this one. Though I would certainly like to catch those who did this to him. This crime thing, it do make you pay the time and for some, though they don't see it, it can even mean eternity."
      We said our good-byes and he left; Ricky joining in. I again wondered if Ricky was getting tired. "There's a man which has never let blindness stop him. He just keeps going. You ready to head back in?"
      "Why he just sell brooms? Why not a counselor or teacher or something else like that?" Was Ricky's answer, said from the heart, but also as a questioning retort and general complaint to why this black man had only been allowed to achieve the station in life that he had.
      Not taking it personally I saw it as another point of blindness and/or life on which to educate my student. "Ricky, let me ask you something. How long have you known Reverend Peachwater?"
      "Ah, not say'n I know him, but I've seen him around all my life. Hell, my parents say they seen him around when they were grow'n up!"
      "There in part is your answer. He's been around on the streets for a couple of generations, like forty or fifty years. That means back when he was growing up as a young blind kid and adult his options were what they were for that time. Back then in our history in dealing with the blind, them career expectations were very limited. Like trades in piano tuning, caning chairs, making and selling brooms, like that."
      "Man! Just like what they do with people who ain't the same as the majority." Saying "majority" like it was a dirty word. "What a waste."
      "Yeah, people do that, then and now." Reaching out with my cane, tapping him on the leg; only afterward did I wonder how he would accept it. I said, "The point here is, hey! He did all right with his business." Stressing the concept of business. "You do know he sent all five of his kids through college?"
      Getting a grunt of realization and acceptance of my facts, I continued, "And for being a man who if he indeed has had counseling and/or teaching aspirations and ability, think of who he is, all he does. He's found a way to make it happen. What do you think he's been doing with his ministering all these years?"
      By Ricky's answer to what I had elaborated on concerning the Reverend present and the Reverend past I knew he had listened and processed it. His next answer also showed me a level of sophistication I hadn't seen in him before. "People's do develop. The times show that. What gets me is how some are always held back."
      "Yeah I know. Being blind I know what it feels like to be a minority, having fewer opportunities and being a person who too many people expect less from."
      Ricky didn't respond, though I thought the silence seemed extra heavy. "So ah, you ready to head back home?"
      "Yeah." Turning of his own accord, he headed west; the opposite side of the block we had come east on showing me his mapping ability to complete a route utilizing a different way back to an original starting point.
      Arriving back at his grandparent's home, we found the situation there had changed from when we had left. Coming in the front door our first clue was a small boy's voice singing out, "Father!" His girlfriend and son were there. It was quite the scene. His son was all over him wanting to play with his cane and get all the attention he could.
      His girlfriend, Darla was anxious to know how he had made out. But at the same time was trying to hold back and not show she had been worried.
      His grandparents were just proud. "How'd you do, son?" asked his grandfather, the first to voice their thoughts.
      "All right." Turning to me he asked, "What's your opinion? You're the instructor."
      I wasn't expecting this type of response. His tone wasn't something I was expecting either. He seemed to be honestly deferring to me. My answer wasn't hard to bring up and present; I would just need to watch it and not allow myself to slip into a lecture mode. "Good. He's a good student. He shows good technical aptitude and common travel sense. I think with more experience he'll do well, be able to go anywhere at anytime." I believed in what I said. He had shown he has what it takes. I'd introduced the cane to dozens of people down through the years and could quickly separate the quick and able from the hesitant and mediocre. Sure time would tell, nevertheless first impressions always got my attention.
      They wanted to know where we had gone. It was great to see Ricky volunteering to tell them where and what we had done. He included meeting and talking with the Reverend Peachwater, however not the older gentlemen and the car. I brought it up and I am afraid they all gave him a bit too much praise. He responded like he didn't want to hear it. Nevertheless it was still good for him.
      His grandmother asked another key question. "Mr. Patrick, where else do you plan to take Ricky cane walking?"
      I liked this question. It would allow me to give them all a brief introduction on the stages of learning this valuable skill, throw in a few suggestions for the next key areas of adjustment we needed to address and finally it would work to enroll their support. "Next we need to expand and cover more distance and take in different types of travel experiences. Some of these would be crossing more difficult streets, do address locations, ride buses, go into other parts of town such as the business district, a mall, and like that. Ricky will need to work on using various environmental cues like the sun, the wind, sounds around in the immediate area and just learn to use all that is out there. This is how a blind person pieces together the world and his place in it as he travels."
      They were listening, agreeing with their small non-word responses. "It would also be wise to use a travel lesson to go back to the mechanic shop." This last suggestion was something I hadn't been able to get Ricky to discuss with me back when it was just him and me talking about travel and his job. With his grandmother asking and with them all here to provide a special backdrop to this notion, I took advantage of this opportunity to bring it up and lay it at his feet.
      Ricky didn't respond, but I heard agreement from at least two of the adults. Then, as they say from the mouth of a babe, little R.J. (Ricky Junior) said, "Cars! Fix!"
      With all this going on around Ricky, I wondered if any one was looking him in the face; what would they see there? This addressing of his future employment status was in my mind a significant step we needed to take in his overall rehabilitation. It could help in cementing his future goals and long term adjustment.
      Finally Ricky said, "Yeah, R.J. Fix cars." He picked up the boy and put him on his lap. "You know your daddy likes them cars." Then looking my way. "Yeah, guess that's a plan. I know I need to face up to it. Hell, I always said I could do it with my eyes closed. So what's the difference?"
      After more general talk I got up to take my leave. Today Ricky had made several strides toward adjustment and I hoped success and happiness; more than I had hoped for during this session.
      At the door he said, "Thanks, Mr. Patrick. I ain't promising noth'n, but to do my best."
      With no offering of his hand, I resisted putting out mine. "That's all anyone can ask." I said and figured I'd better not try and go any further, risk spoiling what I thought we'd established this afternoon.

4

      Leaving, I decided I was thirsty enough to take a walk down to this neighborhood's favorite watering hole, the 7-11. The extra walk would give me time to mull over the afternoon's events. I am sure if anyone was watching me close they would see a lighter step and spirit than when I had arrived. Today's session had revealed strong signs of adjustment. Ricky wanting to go on, using the cane out in public, still wanting to marry, to be a father to his son and wanting to go back to work. Also just as important, there had been an adjustment in his perception and acceptance of a man from another race. Then, "oops!" With my thoughts too much directed inward, I missed a curb with my cane. I hated it when that happened, the sudden drop always messes up my stride, my thoughts and about breaks my ankle. But on ward we go, life's to short to get hung-up in the small things.
      A little later outside the store, sipping a lemonade, I relaxed. On one hand I observed the foot traffic in and out of the store. I knew several of the passers-by and they'd stop and say hello. On the other hand, I continued to examine the case I had just finished working on. I was starting to speculate on possible next actions to bring about further adjustment. I also started to mull over the idea of asking around among these few stores concerning Charlemagne's case. There was a pawn shop next door I hadn't visited yet. I wasn't there for too long, before I found myself talking with an older woman, Pearl. She knew I was a rehab counselor and wanted to tell me about her aunt's cataract condition. Though I listened politely, the half of my mind she hadn't been able to capture became aware of two men walking passed us, up to the store. They were talking and something about them made me feel I should know them. However they were to the door and inside before I could figure out any more about them and this bugged me. I had noted Pearl's voice moving toward these guys and being the nosey kind of guy I am I said, "Excuse me, but did you see who those two were that just walked by?"
      "Yeah, Jermane Brooks and some friend of his from Chicago or somewhere like that." Said in a tone that made it pretty clear she didn't have the highest opinion of their character.
      After Pearl ran off to catch a bus, drink finished, I took a minute to figure what to do next. What I decided was I had my trash to get rid of and with this puzzling feeling about the two guys who had walked by, Jermane and his friend, I'd see if I could resolve this question. I figured they were still inside, unless they'd gone out the back.
      Inside I took my time. Locating the trash can, the tap of my cane on its plastic side made only a small "THUNK;" a noise lost amongst the sound of kids playing video games, Rock music, small groups at various counters talking and all the other nondescript sounds that filled this large room. Auditorially scanning I couldn't tell right off if the two guys I was looking for were still around. Moving back through a few of the counters I fingered what ever I found there, trying to appear like I was looking for something. Though I had only spoken to Jermane a couple of times, I felt I'd have no problem picking out his rather high tenor voice; it had a quality of always sounding a bit patronizing. Ironically he was a small time pusher like Charlemagne had been and though I didn't like him much, nonetheless thought I'd see what this would bring.
      "Hey, Samuel." The voice I was looking for. "What's happen'n, my man?" With all the noise around I hadn't heard him come up, he was right at my elbow.
      "Howdy Jermane. Not much happening. Kind of same old stuff." Not giving him much, wondering if the other guy was there with him? My mind was starting to race trying to figure where I would go with this one.
      "Keep'n happy?" Was his next curious question and I guess my inward confusion with it was strong enough I gave him a puzzled look. "Hey, Charlemagne's gone now. Sorry to hear it. Its rough out here on the streets. But you know, you keep'n happy?" Asking that "happy" thing again.
      I wasn't getting it, was he inquiring about how I was taking the loss of my friend or what?
      Hearing what I thought must be someone else standing near, I instead asked, "Who's your friend?"
      "Ah." He was looking off to his right where I could now definitely hear a man shifting his feet. "Morris, meet Samuel." A quick shaking of hands; large hand, he must be tall and big. "He's in from the big city do'n some business." Jermane went on to say, then he was back at me with another question. "So ah, you need'n anything?"
      I finally got it! He was hitting on me, asking if I wanted to buy any drugs. Which meant he must figure my long time friendship with Charlemagne had included that service. "No, I don't need anything." Taking a chance I asked, "But you could help me on something. Do you know anything about what happened to Charlemagne?"
      "Naa, can't say I do." His too slick way of talking making it sound unconvincing.
      Not waiting to see what else he might say, I directed my next question to the big guy standing at his side. "What about you? Know anything about my friend?"
      "What you mean?" Was his answer and I wasn't sure what he meant.
      "He was a friend, somebody killed him and left him in an alley. I got to ask whoever I can. Were you around a month ago?" He didn't like my questioning and he started to let me know. "Ain't none of my business what you try'n to do." With that he moved off leaving Jermane and me standing together.
      "Samuel don't get on his bad side. He's connected around town." Then after thinking something over he said, "I'll try and keep him out of your way. But you think about if there's anything I can be do'n for you in the future." Turning, He too was off.
      Standing there on my own again I really didn't feel any wiser to what it was about those two guys that gnawed at my subconscious. However having done all I could do in this store I moved out and down the street.
      In the pond shop I just finished asking the owner if he had heard anything about Charlemagne's case, when the bell above the street door "CLANKED." I didn't pick up on the new arrivals at first, however as the owner talked about crime in general, I got a chance to identify the two newcomers. They were Jermane and Morris. It was the way the guy from "the big city" moved that I was now keyed in on. His tread was heavy; he might be a weight lifter, definitely not a light footed athlete type. I wasn't sure why they'd come in, but I wasn't going to get too paranoid yet. There were a few more questions I needed to ask the shop owner. "Has there been anyone in lately wanting to unload used fancy clothes?"
      "No, can't say we've had much trade in that area lately. We do take some furs, tucks and like that. You'd do better at a second hand store for that type of item."
      "What you look'n for here?" The big guy asked while Jermane talked to the owner. "Still ask'n around about your friend?" His tone letting me know he now was showing an interest in my business, I didn't know why, nonetheless I was now interested in why he was interested.
      "Friends need to look out for friends, don't they?"
     Not letting me go any further he butted in, "Even when they dead?" This last he hung out there between us and it sort of just dangled. It made me wonder just what he was asking or saying. Intimidation is what I decided would be his first message.
      "Morris, Samuel," horned in Jermane. "The man here say he don't know noth'n. I don't know noth'n, so that mean no body know noth'n!" Slapping his hands together. "Done deal." Then to his friend, "Morris, my man, what say you and me keep on moseying down the street. There's more I'd like to show you about the neighborhood." With a little more jockeying around Jermane had the two of them out and gone.
      I wondered what more Morris would have said.
      Later on the bus, still mulling over the afternoons events there was one I couldn't get laid to rest. It centered around Jermane and his out of town friend Morris. I had that little nagging thought, there was something here I was missing. Getting stuck between feeling and thought like this always drove me crazy. I knew myself well enough to realize there was something with this I hadn't processed yet. Something I knew, but wasn't identifying and it would eventually come.

5

      Next morning it wasn't my alarm that woke me, it was my telephone, Dworick. "Samuel, wake you up?" Not waiting for me to answer, "Well, turn about is fair play. We got him, evidence and a confession. He did for your friend all right."
      Replacing the receiver I got up. In the small hours of the morning I had awaken and called Dworick. What had been nagging me on the bus and all evening had come together in my sleep. It had been Jermane and Morris, starting from the time outside the 7-11. It had been a case of incongruities, of two parts not fitting together. Initially I had felt I knew them, at least their audio-signatures. I knew Jermane's voice right off; he was the only one talking at the time. Then there was the other guy, Morris. It had been the sound of his walk that had attracted my attention, my subconscious and had been the main source of incongruity in this mix. Yes it was there with Jermane's voice and Morris's walk where my mind had been stuck; thought I knew the talk and the walk. I had been hung up trying to identify this walk, however where I had unknowingly the right footwear I.D.ed, it was the wrong stride, the wrong guy for the footwear. Like I told Dworic, the man had Charlemagne's custom footwear. He was walking in my friend's shoes.

TOP OF PAGE

THOUGHT PROVOKER PAGE

SHORT STORIES PAGE

LINKS PAGE

HOME PAGE>

WALK IN MY SHOES

byRobert Leslie Newman

Copyright 10-27-97

by
Robert Leslie Newman